


L is for...

by inkstainedwarrior



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Romantic Fluff, ancel learns how to read, berenger is a beautifully boring mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstainedwarrior/pseuds/inkstainedwarrior
Summary: “I know you’re not reading that.” Berenger tried, hoping that such an affirmation would help ground him.“Yet you enjoy the suggestion all the same.” Ancel’s smirk deepened, his eyes swaying to the obvious bulge in Berengers trousers.





	L is for...

Berenger stood motionless in the doorway, his eyes held in place by the glisten of bare legs in sunlight. The scene before him evaded comprehension – a fantasy seemingly brought to life on an otherwise mundane afternoon. His heart galloped the longer he stared, each thumping beat a step closer to actualisation. He knew, logically, that this was disingenuous; that the core of his desire could not be true in this exact instant. But the mere thought of it, the very suggestion that Ancel could be sat so astutely for one so naked, reading from a book of romantic prose – well. It was enough to…bring him undone.

A smirk perched itself on Ancel’s face, and Berenger found himself scrambling for some modicum of stature. He wasn’t easily thrown (or caught) off guard, but he was learning that a certain young man had a penchant for it. Mostly in being it’s cause. He steadied himself and moved away from the doorframe. The wooden click of the closing door a murmur in comparison to the thudding of his heart.

“I know you’re not reading that.” Berenger tried, hoping that such an affirmation would help ground him.

“Yet you enjoy the suggestion all the same.” Ancel’s smirk deepened, his eyes swaying to the obvious bulge in Berengers trousers.

He made no move to hide it, allowing Ancel the reward for his hard work. Though, he mused, the challenge appeared to be lessening. How long would it be before Ancel became restless and started looking for challenges elsewhere? It would not be untoward. An attractive and intelligent young man needed more than the refines of a house pet; despite his many protestations otherwise. He needed stimulation – in all its forms, and Berenger would need to find a way to provide it. He knew that in comparison to some, nay, most courtiers, he faltered. Stumbled at the gates, as it were. He didn’t desire the lavish lives they led or the duplicitous friendships they held. He had no patience for parlour games, or the pompous rituals performed at gatherings. The things he likes, he owns. The people he likes, he keeps nearby – and Ancel made the top of a very short list in that regard.  
Ancel’s eyes swayed back to the book and again Berenger was drawn into a trance. The curve of a bent neck, pale and slender – marmoreal. Strawberry strands flowing over a shoulder to pool against a bare, etched chest. Devine. Through and through. And at the centre of this masterpiece sat a pearl. A pearl of knowledge, beauty and desire. The book. It painted a scene so perfect that no other jewel could compare.

“What if I taught you?” Berenger’s voice came out rough, still partially lost to desire.

“Huh?” The smirk had dropped but his eyes read curious.

“What if I taught you to read, Ancel?” Excitement started to flood his voice. Between all the flirting and fucking the two hadn’t left room for much else. This would be new. It would be fun.

“And why would I want to do a thing like that?” Ancel quipped, a slight edge to this tone. Was this the wrong approach? Was Ancel ashamed?

Berenger lowered himself to the ground, taking the book from Ancel’s lap and replacing it with his hands. Resting on his thighs, the touch was soft – gentle. His eyes imploring.  
“Because you’re smart, and charming…”

“Keep talking,” Ancel cut in, putting a hand over Berengers.

“…and determined to succeed at everything you attempt. You’re destined to do well.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Other than knowing how to read?!” Berenger’s voice filled the room. Ancel almost leapt from his chair at the shock of it.

“I mean, that’s the obvious draw, but…”

“Look,” Berenger cut in, his thumb rubbing small circles on Ancel’s bare thigh. “If you’ve got me on my knees now, just imagine what you could do to me by reading aloud from Ovid’s _Erotic Poetry_.”

“Well,” Ancel mused, his pout twisting into contemplation, “how about we start there then?”

“How about we start with the alphabet and some clothing?” Ancel’s eyes narrowed at the compromise, and Berenger softened even more; always the putty in Ancel’s hands. “Pants, then. I can’t be _that_ distracted.”

But it was hard, Berenger found, to not be distracted. He could feel the intensity of Ancel’s gaze, watching closely as he rolled letters and sounds around his mouth. Every vowel spoken punctuated by the question mark in Ancel’s eyes. As his hands moved across the page Ancel’s followed, fingers grazing, bumping into each other with a softness often reserved for love making. It was quiet outside the speaking of written words. A comfortable silence that grew and grew the longer they practiced.

Each day started with a revision of the previous day. A reminder to Ancel of how far he had come, and a reward for Berenger to hear Ancel speak the words unaided. The coercion once needed to settle in to their lessons shifted, now finding itself pushing the pair out of them. Burnt out candles masking muffled yawns and smudged ink. A gentle kiss followed by a harder shove. A tussling of sheets and hair lapsing into the whistle of an early bird.

“Sound it out slowly,” Berenger spoke, his finger pointing to the next word in a very long and winding sence. "Say it with me – com-pli-cat-ed.”

Ancel didn’t speak, his eyes glued instead to the slow movements of Berenger’s lips.

“Ancel…”

Ancel brushed his hair back with his fingers, a soft smile on his face. “Complicated,” he spat out, words flying from his lips. “Though the art of clockwork is complicated it is rewarding, yada yada yada.”

Berenger was stunned into silence.

“This book is boring. Can we read something else?”

“Um…” Berenger was still coming out of his stupor – though on reflection he felt stupid for even entering in to one. Ancel was smart, and they’d been working so hard for so long now. Of course he would be able to comprehend that this book was, indeed, boring. At least to himself. Berenger found the book to be quite interesting. But then he found most books interesting.

“Let’s try writing something then. I want you to write something that interests you.”

Ancel quickly took ink to paper and wrote in beautiful cursive _Ancel_.

Berenger couldn’t supress the laughter that came forth. Of course Ancel was a topic that interested Ancel. He handed him another sheet. “Expand on it. Give me a sentence for each letter. Like an acrostic poem.”

Ancel’s brows knitted together. “A what?”

“It’s a poem that…here. I’ll write one first. You read it and then write your own.” Ancel nodded and waited as Berenger got to work.

His handwriting, as had previously been observed, was not as neat and beautiful as Ancel’s. How could it be? Beautiful had never been required of him before. In his writing, in his actions, in his presentation. Perhaps that was why he admired beautiful things. Perhaps that was why he had admired Ancel in the beginning. Beautiful of body and beautiful of mind. A book in Ancel’s lap was not the jewel, he would surmise. Ancel was.

“Are you done yet?” The object of his affection whined, no longer capable of sitting still whilst Berenger ummed and ahh-ed his thoughts on a page.

With reluctance, Berenger handed over the poem. Ancel cleared his throat dramatically.

“Anywhere you go, I’ll follow,  
Nerving through weather fine and shallow.  
Cajoling others that here is where you belong,  
Even when we know it is probably wrong.  
L is for love; what I feel for you and nobody else.”

They both sat silent for a while. Ancel’s eyes on the poem, Berenger’s on Ancel. A red flush on both their cheeks. Ancel moved first, his lips connecting with Berengers in a soft kiss before deepening it. Ancel never wrote his poem.


End file.
